


Sherlollipops - Noir

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [177]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, in the style of film noir, mentions of molliarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6690400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, 1930s private eye, meets Molly Hooper, girlfriend of James "The Shark" Moriarty. Just a bit of Raymond Chandleresque fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Noir

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a gorgeous (not recent) pic of Ben C smoking (smoking is bad, yes) with slightly shorter hair but still the dark curls. It's written in first person POV because if you're gonna write noir, that's the only way to write it. Cover art by the amazing artbylexie.

 

I pulled the smoke from my lips, dropping it and grinding it beneath my heel as I watched the suspect’s girlfriend walk down the street towards her car. She was a sweet little number, dressed from head to foot in an eye-watering shade of cherry red, with little plastic cherries on the straps of her matching red pumps. There were even a few little bunches of the fake fruit on the dame’s pillbox hat, perched at a dangerous angle on top of her cinnamon-brown hair. She was a tiny little thing, a real pocket Venus if you like the type – and I had to say, it was a surprise to me to discover that yeah, I liked the type.

The little half-veil over her eyes did nothing to hide how big and wide they were, making the rest of her face almost look too small. She’d dolled herself up with matching red lipstick, and all I could think about was how much I enjoyed cherry pie as she moved down the pavement.

I must have been staring too hard; she slowed down and turned her head as she reached her car. Quick as thought I ducked my head, acting as if I was more interested in the map lying on the bonnet of my roadster than in her. From the corner of my eye I saw her hesitate just a moment before shaking her head and getting behind the wheel of her sporty little MG. A little flashier than the type I’d pegged her for, but it was probably her scumbag boyfriend’s car.

I waited till she’d pulled away before stuffing the map into my pocket and jumping behind the wheel to follow her. I let a couple of cars get between us for safety’s sake, and spent the time catching up to her to ponder my fascination with the notorious gangster’s moll. I couldn’t help a grin from spreading over my face as I heard that word in my mind: moll. Did she had any kind of a sense of humor about her name? The alliteration definitely tickled my seldom-used sense of humor: Molly the mobster’s moll.

Remembering why I was tailing her sobered me up like a fall from a four-story building. Jim “The Shark” Moriarty was a dangerous man, nobody’s fool, and as slippery as an eel. The only reason the cops had called me in on the case was because they couldn’t seem to pin a single crime on him no matter how many times his name came up in the papers or on the witness stand.

He didn’t seem to have a weak spot, a pressure point…until suddenly he started dating Molly Hooper, assistant pathologist at St. Barts Hospital and current object of my desire…no, _attention_. Object of my _attention_ , I corrected myself with a mental slap. There was nothing personal in my interest in her, despite the many interesting things I’d uncovered about her in the course of my investigation.

At first glance she was just another country mouse come to the big city to make her way, who’d glommed onto a handsome, wealthy man when things turned out to be not so glamorous in London as she’d been led to believe. But that didn’t jibe with her choice of profession – or her refusal to be seen decked out in furs and jewels like any other mobster’s girl, posh car aside. She had her own sense of style and even though it made people squint, Moriarty didn’t seem to mind it – and neither, to my surprise, did I. I admired her willingness to stick with her own taste, which had only changed in the sense that she wore designer labels instead of hand-me-downs. She’d finished her education a year early in spite of losing both parents a year apart, she’d managed to get a job in a male-dominated field, and she still lived in her own modest flat above a dressmaker’s rather than allow Moriarty to move her into an expensive lease in one of the flashier neighborhoods.

Speaking of which…while I’d been going over Miss Hooper’s history – and her more attractive qualities, all in the name of the case I had to remind myself – she’d taken the ramp to the motorway, signaling her destination as clearly as if she’d whispered it in my ear. Back to London, then, instead of meeting her boyfriend at his country manor. Damn, she must have made me. I took the same ramp, determined to keep following her even if she knew I was there, while I wondered if she’d got a good enough look at my mug to describe me to her boyfriend.

The answer to that question turned out to be a lot more complicated than just ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Just like a lotta things in life. The only exceptions to that particular rule, I’d long ago discovered, were a good bottle of Scotch and a gun. Nice, simple, straightforward parts of any private dick’s life.

I found out just how complicated it could get as I rounded the corner of her building, expecting to be able to follow her up the back stairs and do a little snooping around outside, listen in to see if she’d called her boyfriend to tell him about me.

Instead I came face to face with the woman herself – and stopped hard at the sight of the little pearl-handled revolver she was holding up to my face. “Who are you?” she asked coolly. “Why are you following me?” 

Oh, she was a real tough cookie; my estimation of her went up a notch even as I raised my hands. I moved slowly as I assessed her willingness to actually shoot me with the flick of an eye. She was nervous, but held the little revolver like a pro. Someone had taught her, and taught her well. “Your father,” I said as I rapidly reviewed her family history. “He taught you. He was a cop, a good one, an _honest_ one,” I added with heavy emphasis and the crook of an eyebrow. Molly’s hands remained steady but I saw her shame in the droop of her eyelids. “You loved him, I said, more softly this time. “Wanted him to be proud of you even though he’s been dead for…oooh!” My eyes widened as it all clicked into place.

Molly’s eyes were just as wide, with a hint of panic that hadn’t been there before. “Listen, I don’t know who you are,” she began, but I waved her words away.

“Sherlock Holmes, hired by the Met to look into your boyfriend,” I told her. “Mind if I smoke?” I didn’t wait for her confused nod before carefully reaching into my breast pocket and pulling out my cigarette case. Silver, engraved with a pattern of bees, a gift from a grateful client. I politely offered her one of the cigs, but she shook her head, a confused notch etched between her perfectly shaped brows. Normally I liked putting people on the back foot, but right now I wanted her to understand – to see that _I_ understood. “You’re not dating Moriarty to get ahead, or for the glamour or because you’re attracted to powerful men – although you are,” I added as an aside. “No, you’re letting him use you as his arm-candy because you’re playing a deeper game.” I lowered my voice to its deepest register as I said, “Tell me, Molly Hooper, how did your father die?”

She didn’t have to say a word; her eyes told the whole story, start to finish. She opened her mouth, but I moved closer, ignoring the gun and placing a finger over her red-painted lips. “Shh,” I counseled. “I get it. Revenge is a dirty business, and sometimes you have to lie down with the dogs even if you know you’re gonna wake up with fleas.”

The gun wavered and finally she dropped her arm, looking defeated. “I should just shoot you and tell Jimmy you tried to put your dirty paws on me,” she whispered, those sweet lips drooping at the corners as I pulled my finger away. “He’d make sure no one ever found your body.”

I took another step forward. “He’s responsible, he ordered the hit on your father,” I said. A statement, not a question, but she nodded anyway. “How did you find out? What kind of evidence do you have?”

“Nothing yet,” she admitted with a small shrug. Her lips were still tugged downward, and I felt an odd sensation in my stomach as I realized that I wanted to do something to make her smile again. What kind of spell did this dame have me under? “Nothing I can take to the police. And Jimmy’s careful to keep me away from his business.” She gave a bitter laugh. “If the cops wanna know where the best restaurants and dance halls are, I could show them like that.” She snapped her fingers, the ones not still holding a revolver.

“I’ll help you,” I said, startling myself again. I hadn’t planned on saying any such thing, but there was something about her big brown eyes that got to me. I was probably gonna regret it, but if that turned out to be the case, I’d be sure to take one payment for my help in advance.

“Why?” she asked, but couldn’t hide the flash of hope in her eyes.

I shrugged. “Because I like your style, Molly Hooper.” Then I did what I’d been dying to to since first laying eyes on her: I pulled her into my arms and kissed her.

She didn’t belt me or pull away, just held me close and kissed me back as if her life depended on it. And maybe it did; it was a dangerous game she was playing, one she could lose – along with her life – if Moriarty caught onto her.

But hey, games with life and death stakes were the only ones worth playing, in my book. “So, Molly Hooper,” I said when I’d finished kissing her breathless, “time to take down a criminal empire. Shall we begin?”

Her brilliant smile was all the answer I needed.


End file.
